The Past Is a Foreign Country (2015)

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. Not necessarily better, and not necessarily worse. That's not what 'different' stands for. Blonde hair is different from black one, but nobody can really tell it's better or worse to be blonde than to have black hair. Of course, there is this prejudice about blonde women and their... let's call it lack of intelligence. But you know, I've met one girl, she had black hair and she was dumb as... oh, I'm not gonna ruin this more or less poetic text with the f-word. That would be foolish of me.

But let's go back to the first thing I mentioned. Yes, the past being a foreign country. I wish it were as easy to cross the borders of different eras as it is to cross the borders of different countries. If only there was some kind of passport that would allow you to travel back and forth in time. To experience the different. I like different.

I take an old framed photograph of me and my wife, both with a wide smile in our face. Of course we are smiling. The photographer told us to. It was taken on our wedding day and happiness was required from us by everyone who came to the church to celebrate our marriage. But were we really, truly, genuinely happy? The answer sounds too painful when you say it out loud, so I'm begging you: whisper it as quietly as you possibly can. 'No.'.

I put the photograph back on the night table and switch off the light. The room looks different now, when it's covered with darkness. Neither better, nor worse. Different. And I like it.

I like changes. Marrying Lavender was a change for sure. Not the one that would make me happier and more satisfied, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a good one. Lavender was an extremely attractive young lady, kind and caring, and from quite a wealthy family. What better choice could a man like me possibly make? True, she never loved me and I never loved her. But do we regret our decision? Say this as loud as you wish, because we are proud of this answer: 'No, and we never have.'

I try to fall asleep, but I'm not tired at all. The past keeps playing in my head like a movie and I can't turn it off. It's slightly disturbing. I don't want to think about my wedding day now, forty-seven years later, in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, my mind is pretty determined to remember it in colours, so I have no other choice than to close my eyes and board on the metaphorical ship that takes me on a voyage to the year 1968.

My ship arrives to the docks and I get off and head towards the church. I go past people wearing ridiculous clothes and I smile for myself, laughing at them and feeling sorry for them at the same time. Then I realise I have no right to do so. I used to wear the same fashion, believing I looked handsome and elegant.

While walking past the shop window, I flash my reflection, which catches my attention, so I stop for a short while to look at myself. I am wearing my light-blue silk pyjamas and the slippers I got from my son for Christmas. Right. I'm the last person here to judge anyone's clothes. I shake my head and continue on my way to the local church, speeding up a bit, as I can already hear the wedding bells.

When I arrive, I spot two rows of the wedding guests standing in front of the church. The groom and the bride are just about to walk out the door. I lean to a bald man next to me and I ask him: 'What do you think? A happy marriage on the way?'

'Definitely,' he answers with a smile, although there is a bit of disgust in his eyes due to my inappropriate clothes. 'They're a perfect match.'

I was right. Such a different country this is.

The groom and the bride, aka me and Lavender, walk out of the church and everybody starts cheering for the seemingly happy couple. For a second, my heart stops when I see Lavender all young and full of energy and beauty. She truly is the perfect bride, looking like a princess in her wedding dress, her fair hair falling down to her waist, her lips smiling so bright she would outshine any star, her hand holding my young-self’s hand like she will never let him go. And I know she won’t. And in that moment, I feel lucky she has stayed with me for all those years.

Everyone begins to clap their hands and after a while I join them. You should clap your hands at the end of a play, right? And in a way, that is exactly what our wedding day was. A play.

The wedding bells start ringing louder and louder. Suddenly, the noise is almost unbearable. Abruptly, I wake up with a scream and I realise it is the sound of my alarm clock. My wife, who is lying next to me, sits up and asks me if everything is alright. I look at her and I can’t help but smile when I gaze at her face. The beauty, energy and kindness I saw in her eyes in my dream, as well as I did forty-seven years ago, is still there.

‘Yes, dearie,’ I answer. ‘Everything’s just okay.’

 

(Not Such a) Sweet Surprise (2015)

After a long day at school I am totally exhausted and hungry not like a wolf, but like a whole pack of wolves. Unfortunately, when I arrive home and open the fridge, it’s as empty as my stomach. I curse. How am I always so irresponsible and never buy enough food?

I walk towards the shelf on which a packet of crisps lies. I curse again. I’m in no mood for crisps. What I’d appreciate right now is something sweet and tasty and warm….

Suddenly, the lights in the living room go on and there is my best friend, wearing a stunning dress, standing next to the table on which there are two plates with pancakes. I curse yet another time, this time from excitement. I inhale the appealing smell of the pancakes. One more look tells me there is Nutella on them. And cream on the top. I immediately remember crépes I had in Paris in September and wanna cry.

I rush towards my friend and ask her: ‘Oh my god, Barbara, how did you know I was coming home all hungry? And how did you know I was in the mood for pancakes?!’

I let go off her, sit down, and take the knife and fork. Barbara coughs, so I look at her. ‘Uhm, I didn’t,’ she frowns. ‘This is for Michael. I’ve invited him over. You promised you’d stay out late tonight.’

Bloody hell.

NO PANCAKES FOR ME.

The Wild Rose (2015)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part One - Eliza

 

They called me The Wild Rose

But my name was Eliza Day

Why they called me it I do not know

For my name was Eliza Day

 

The day I found out they called me The Wild Rose has changed everything. It was a lovely, sunny day and I decided to spend it outside. I went to the meadow where I liked to dance to the melody of my own singing, and then to lay down in the grass and smell to the beautiful flowers. It always made me feel alive, and when I walked back home through the village, I gave everyone I met a genuine smile. I wanted to share with the others how happy and full of energy I was and make them feel the same. And they always smiled back and I was satisfied with accomplishing my goal.

This extraordinary day wasn't originally meant to be any different from the others. I went to the meadow as usual, planning to enjoy myself for a while, surrounded by the stunning nature, accompanied by no one but the gentle summer breeze. But there was someone else this time.

While I was singing from the bottom of my heart, like I always do, and dancing among the flowers, I heard some noise coming from the close bushes. I turned around quickly and went silent in shock.

I glanced a man standing there and watching me amazedly. I had never seen him before, but I wasn't afraid. Something inside me kept telling me I had no reason to be.

I walked towards him slowly and I smiled at him, so I wouldn't scare him away or make him feel uncomfortable. He seemed a bit upset that I caught him spying on me and I needed to make sure he wouldn't feel guilty about it. He really didn't have to. I wasn't angry with him. Actually, I was flattered.

'Hello,' I said, my voice suddenly a bit fragile. Must have been the fault of his mesmorizing eyes. 'I'm Elisa. Elisa Day.'

'The Wild Rose,' he whispered while we shook hands, and his dark eyes opened wide.

'Pardon me?' I frowned.

'The Wild Rose,' he repeated. 'That's how the people in the village call you,' he explained, still holding my hand. He finally let go off it a long second later.

'Do they?' I wondered. 'Why?'

He just gazed at me as if he saw an angel and then he excused himself and ran away.

I didn't understand what just happened and I desired to find out more about the mysterious man, as well as about why the villagers called me The Wild Rose. With those questions on my mind, I headed back home.

 

Part 2 - Him

 

From the moment I saw her she was the one

As she stayed in my eyes and smiled

For the lips with the colour of the roses

That grew down the river all bloody and wild

 

From the moment I saw her I knew she was the one. The Wild Rose I had overheard everyone in the village talking about. It made perfect sense. Her hair and lips as red as the roses that grew down the river all bloody and wild. And the sparkle of wildness in her moves and in her eyes. I understood why she drove all the men crazy and why they only could love her and no one else, and also why all the women hated her and teared their hair in jealousy.

The beauty of her face was nearly killing me. And the temptation in her voice, which stumbled a little bit, as if it couldn't bear the sexual tension, when she said 'Hello.', almost ripped my heart out. And when I touched the soft skin of her tiny hand, I wasn't able to let it go for an eternity, for the pain I was worried it might cause me.

She wasn't only everything a man could be looking for. No, she was more. Too much for this world. Too much for this life.

I felt like I was desperately gasping for breath. The woman may have looked like an angel, but she was a devil in disguise. 'I'm Elisa. Elisa Day,' she claimed. But that name meant nothing compared to The Wild Rose. It sounded like an understatement. The Wild Rose fits her so much better, I thought.

I found the innocent look in her face when she asked why she was called that ironic. As if she wasn't aware of her own beauty and the impact she had on everybody, but ironically, that made her even more beautiful and powerful. And above all, dangerous.

After the intense first moment we shared, I had to escape. But my mind just wouldn't leave her. I had to see her again, no matter what. It was as if some magical light lead me to her house and suddenly, I found myself standing in front of the door, lifting my hand in order to knock on it.

 

TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into The Blue (2014)

What happens when a young Czech writer goes for a walk by the sea while on holidays in Rabac, takes some paper and a pen with her and listens to Kylie Minogue? This story is the answer. :) I gotta say that writing by the sea below the rising sun is truly magical and full of inspiration.  :) I'm enclosing the song Into The Blue which had lead me to the idea for this story, but moreover it helped me to get through the tough time of graduation and entrance examinations at college, because I always listened to it before every exam (with slightly different feelings than the girl in this story, but I don't wanna tell you too much and ruin the story for you.) Maybe if you play this song, you

.will understand this story a little better.  :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was weaving through a crowd of tourists speaking different languages. German was hitting her eardrums, Italian was covering her like a blanket, the language of local people was drilling tiny holes into her head. She tried to catch at least one word in her mother tongue, but it was like the sea washed English off the coast, that's how rare it was in here. As there was no consolation coming from anywhere, a small dark-haired girl stopped concentrating until the snatches of conversations in languages she knew but couldn't understand merged into one compact hum which reminded her of a train going through a tunel. She remembered that when she was little, she was afraid of tunels. Now, a couple of years later, she understood that it's the train she's afraid of. The moving train that can't be stopped.

She quickened her tempo in order to escape the upsetting noise. But when she looked ahead, she didn't see anything else besides numbers of colourful stalls, street painters, flashes of cameras and one body next to each other, all of that being so typical for a nice warm summer evening. She was used to crowds, but she felt like this one was here to trample her down.

She wanted to keep running, but she realized it had no point. With her peripheral vision she noticed some narrow steps leading down to the sea. She sharply changed her direction and she bumped into a German couple which immediately started a tornado of insults. She ignored them, she slipped past them and ran down the steps. The lower she went, the further the buzzing voices were. She blinked a little in the sudden darkness and she looked around to make sure she was alone. No one was there. She moved cautiously towards the sea, watching out not to slip on the smooth stones or trip over a stick. She lost her balance once. A quiet shriek slipped out of her mouth. But she found her balance soon and she kept going. 

On the edge she sat down, took off her sandals and dipped her feet into the water. It was cold but she didn't flinch. She absorbed the salty air which mixed heterogeneously with her floral perfume. It was strangely calming her down though. The longer she sat there, the less stressed out she was. She watched the opposite shore and it seemed to her that it was incredibly far away. She looked at the sea level again and then she closed her eyes for a tiny moment and she remembered what had happened it the last few days.

Her father's confession about being unfaithful to her mum. Screaming. Creak of the closing door when he packed his suitcase and left. Crying. Mother's insane idea to move here, to Croatia. "Why Croatia?" everybody kept asking her back then. "I just chose a place on the map," she kept answering, sadly watching her daughter who refused to accept this crazy plan. The last look at the retreating skyscrapers through the taxi back window. Croatian-English dictionary on her mother's lap as she was learning some basic phrases on the plane. And finally, in the end of all that... this place. The place she was determined to hate. "You're gonna love it here." Her mother was so disgustingly rhapsodic when they stood at the beach. "Look how beautiful this is! We're gonna start a brand new life here, just the two of us. I will make money by singing and you could dance or something like that. They're gonna fall for us, sweetie," she said and she tried to hug her daughter, but she slipped out of her embrace and ran away. And she simply kept on running. Till she came here.

She opened her eyes. What her mother did was unfair. How could she be so selfish? Why didn't she let her stay at home where she had school, a boyfriend and friends? Or why didn't she at least let her choose the place for their new home? And how could she let this happen that they ended up at this stupid place where they didn't know anybody and nobody wanted them here?

She bent forward and she angrily put her hands into the water. She almost fell, so she immediately straightened up. Her heart started pounding as she was frightened, so she quietly began singing her most favourite song, Into The Blue. It was calming  and moving at the same time. I go crying to the sea, somebody once told her when she was younger. She couldn't remember who. Maybe it was in some movie. One way or another, there was something to it. As soon as the tears that ran down her face touched the level, they immediately merged with the sea water like they were a part of it since forever.

"Don't need no once to rescue me, 'cause I ain't waiting up for no miracle," she sang louder and louder her beloved song by an Australian singer. "Yeah tonight I'm running free, into the blue...." She paused and she suddenly understood everything. "Into the blue," she repeated and she stood up slowly and cautiously. "Into the blue." She stared at the sea level, at the endless salty blue which flashed a warm smile in her direction - at least that's what she saw. That was the feeling of peace and harmony. It was coming from the sea breathing its salty aroma into her face. If she jumped into the sea, she'd merge with it just like her tears before. 

"And I'll go where nobody knows," she was now singing so loud like saying those words out loud was all that mattered; by that she was unknowingly giving anybody a chance to find her and stop her. But how could anyone ever stop her, even if they tried. She was just like the moving train. To get rid of our fear, we become the thing we're the most afraid of. This plain sentence crossed her mind. Another quote from a movie? Or is it her idea this time?

"Whenever the wind is blowing," she kept on singing, perceiving the sea breeze intensively. "Even if I'm alone...." She climbed on the very top of the cliffs. She took a deep breath. "Into the blue," she shouted in a subconscious will to attract anyone's attention. Vainly. The fun upstairs was way too noisy and no one heard her. "Into the blue," she whispered resignedly, she bounced and in the next moment she merged with the salty water like she had been a part of it since forever.

 

Travelling is wonderful... (2014)

 

In the moderate wind pleasantly blowing on sweating foreheads of people that crowded in the dock to give their last goodbye to the crew of the departing ship flutter white silk scarfs of present women waving goodbye. The ship sort of hesitatingly rocks by the coast, maybe it's hard for it to leave so many empty grieving souls here, along with the green bushes, smell of flowers in the park and noise of the city transport. Who would ever wish to leave a mainland so beautiful you can't even breathe, yet still so full of life that it basically makes you breathe itself? 

In faces of the sailors majesticly waving from the deck to their beloved ones, friends and relatives, there is pain written, but it's mixed with joyful expectations, because see is tempting, it swings the ship as if it wanted to invite the ship to go for an adventurous journey, the waves beg insistently it to go ahead for the new experiences and the smell of salt tries ardently to beat the sweet whiff of perfumes of women and girls, mothers and daughters, wives and mistresses whose desirous looks are the actual anchor keeping the ship still by the shore.

Hot beams of summer sun just heat up the imaginary stoves hidden inside all those torn hearts in which the heat of love and misery is aflame. Above the heads wearing sailor caps or colourful hats seagulls fly in circles, not a single one astonished by the moving scene below them. For the seagulls, as well as for the salty water, white clouds on the azure sky and for the light breeze it's just another ship sailing on the wide ocean. Despite the din, voices and screaming you can hear the waves hitting impatiently the sides of the ship as they were reminding me that it's time. Time to set off straight to the new mainland - also a beautiful, green, busy and full of life mainland. And still it'll be different than the one the ship and its crew are used to call their home. Home is wonderful, call the eyes of those who are staying. But travelling is wonderful as well, whispers the sea ingratiatingly.

 

Pandora Syndrom... (2014)

 

I'm sure you've all heard the legend of Pandora's Box, carried by a pretty girl - that itself surely was one of the reasons why opening the legendary box was so tempting. No wonder - it's the same nowadays. A beautiful girl's property is totally beautiful itself as well. But when you remember the evil hidden inside of it, you'd say that world would learn its lesson based on this myth. But the opposite is the truth and I am a living proof of that.

I met my handsome Pandora when I was in my senior year at high school. Only his name wasn't Pandora, it was Milan. And me, the naive and trusty one (I love to blame my puberty of that) totally bought every inch of his aura of innocence shining all around his hot body. And as that wasn't enough, I fell in love with him.

The typical script of an excessively sweet romance would have been holding hands in the hallways, graduating with winning the title of Prom King and Prom Queen (I had my speech of thanks well-prepared in front of the mirror, wearing a plastic tiara which belonged to my younger sister). Unfortunately, it wasn't like that with us. If our story had been a horror, I would have probably ended up in his arms with my head cut off. If my life had wanted to get closer to sci-fi, we would have been kidnapped by aliens who would have used us as servants for cleaning the dust from the craters on their planet. And if my life had decided to change into a western, my hero would have become a sheriff and we would have cantered on our horses towards the sunrise. But my destiny had quite different plans for me and for some reason it desired to let itself be inspired by antic mythology.

After I roused enough courage to say hi to Milan in myself, things went quite smoothly and well. Our relationship flourished, my dear partner was a contemporary source of physical and psychical attraction. Actually, it was like dating a magnet. And that's what he was in fact. A magnet for trouble.

When he first invited me over, I was full of exciting expectations and I couldn't wait for what I would see once I open the door of his room. His mother told me to come in with a bitter grin - she definitely doesn't suffer from Pandora syndrom. However, I didn't let her upset me and I went upstairs.

Let me come back to the already mentioned irresistibility of Pandora's box. If I remember it right, misery and illnesses were hidden inside. I'm sorry if I made you think that Milan had test tubes with viruses and bacterias in his room. But on the other hand, this hunch isn't so incorrect as what appeared in front of my excited eyes would make me faint or have a heart attack if I weren't vaccinated by huge amount of self-respect and tollerance my parents had always taught me to have.

Now you're tensely awaiting the unravelling of what was the room in the form of Pandora's box actually hiding. So here you go. It was my personal Pandora in a tight hug, probably with Aphrodite as I could deduce from the beautiful features of her face and her physical proportions. In shock, I shut the lid of the imaginary box (by that I mean I shut the door, of course) until the good cowering somewhere deep inside his soul got the chance to try to convince me to stay (most probably by the sentence: 'This doesn't mean anything, love!'.

As I'm thinking about this story right now, I gotta say I've drawn two various conclusions from it. First, sometimes, what looks good brings evil. And second, sometimes, ditching what brings evil is the best thing you can do. And so my Pandora is now half forgotten and it's totally lost all of his impact on me, covered up by grace and innocence. I'm cured now.

 

The Guardian (2014)

 

I'm standing outside underneath the dark sky out of which the silver Moon is looking down peacefully at vast fields while making a pilgrimage through the black. It might be watching me, but much more probably she's enjoying the view of the silent, even breathtaking scenery - although, it's maybe more probably the stifling air what makes me breathless. No mild summer breeze, just a sweltering July night. Everything is paralyzed and there's something scary about it, on the other hand I'm more afraid of potential sudden movement in the vineyard. There could be some tramp sneaking through the vineyard, drunk only by the presence of grapes. Or a rodent could run through the field poppies. But none of that will happen, because the night is peaceful, still.

That may be the reason why I'm standing here, petrified, looking like a sculpture - or maybe more like a scarecrow, my arms spread out like I wanted to protect my territory from unwelcome intruders. I'm looking after the scenery picturesque at night as much as during the day, even though it's deprived by the blanket of darkness of all the intense colour accents of green berries and bloody red blooms, so impressively apparent among yellow spikes. I'm inhaling the intoxicating smell of acacias, in this heat even more intense than ever before, and I'm suffocating a bit, but I know I mustn't leave, because I feel how I'm merging with the nature, I'm an inseperable part of this scene of a hot summer night.

Suddenly the sky starts fading, the black sceptres the blue and the Moon waves me goodbye with an intimate promise: 'I'll be here tomorrow again.' And I know that I will be here tomorrow again as well.

A mild wind appears, it rocks the spikes and flowers, it weaves it's way through the brunches of acacias and it gives my grateful lungs precious air. The world gets moving again. The world.... and me.

 

Adulthood begins, when... (2013)

 

Every evening she would sit in her room, next to the window, on the top of a whole mountain of cushions. It was her beloved place to recapitulate at. She always put an open diary on her knees, she took a pen and she wrote. About pain and sorrow, about joy and amazing experiences. About herself. And when she didn't know what to write about, she looked at her face reflected in the window's glass, behind which there was nothing but black, unpenetrable darkness, and she thought about how much her face has changed since the previous day. Is she sadder or happier than yesterday? Uglier or prettier? Older or... no, she's probably never going to be younger anymore.

Then she always looked down at her diary again - at the witness of her life - and using the pen she gave the eternal form to her feelings and memories, as she wrote on the pages promising her understanding and patience for all her vain problems.

It has been her everyday ritual since her fifteenth birthday, when she got her first diary. She has written dozens of thin books that she kept hidden in a box under her bed. Dozens of poured out hearts - and it was all just hers.

Three years passed. More exactly three years without one day. She was turning 18 tomorrow. Adulthood. She sighed. She was sitting by the window as usual, only somehow she wasn't able to write today. All she managed to write was the date. Then she looked up at her reflection and she couldn't stop staring at it. She was watching her facial features. They were beautiful, soft. She liked them. If only she looked like this forever.

She felt like everything was going to change tomorrow. Adulthood begins when you turn 18. How frightening. She didn't want to be an adult yet. She wasn't like her friends who were awaiting their eighteenth birthday so they could stand by the cash desk and with pure conscience and a sneer pull out their ID and buy a bottle of alcohol. She didn't need all those so called advantages of adulthood. She didn't want them. She wanted her youth with her a little pathetic, yet not serious trouble. 

She had a feeling she wasn't turning 18, but at least 28 tomorrow. She was afraid of all the worries, responsibility, tiredness and stereotypes she imagined an adult lives with. Work and duties, work and duties, all over again until you're totally exhausted. And so little happiness, so little fun... So little time to feel time.

She memorized every single detail of her beautiful face like she expected she wouldn't see it the following day anymore. Suddenly she noticed the reflection in the window was crying. She touched her face, it was wet. She looked down; pages of the diary were dotted with drops of her tears. It made her angry. She wrote in capital letters: I DON'T WANNA BE ADULT, then she madly closed the diary and she put her head into her hands and she continued in her heartrending cry.

She must have fallen asleep there, because she was woken up by sunbeams. She yawned, she stretched her body lazily and her eyes searched for the digital clock hanging on the wall above her bed to make sure she didn't oversleep. Then she realized it was Sunday. And then she remembered the date. 

A chill ran down her spine. So she's adult since today. Surprisingly, she didn't feel any change yet, however, she was convinced that it would still come later. She didn't even want to go down, because it was clear to her that her parents will start with the silly talking about their 'big little girl' and she wasn't ready for that; she couldn't avoid them though. And that's why she took a deep breath, determined to survive this whole crappy, breathrough day when her life officially becomes a martyrium.

Of course she survived. And it wasn't even that bad after all. With every other wish and welcome to the world of adults she got more used to this new situatio. And when she sat comfortably on her cushion mountain in the evening and looked at the reflection of her face, she thought she was looking exactly the same as yesterday. The only difference was, she wasn't crying today.

She understood that nothing has changed. Just some official stuff. And she will pay the full price of gate-money. So be it. Her life is still the same. Discovering that was so uplifting that she took her pen with excitement to tell her diary.

You might get adult the day you turn 18. But it doesn't mean that this particular day will bring all the tough parts. Besides, it depends on everyone what their life is like.

 

All You Need (2013)

There's only a couple last steps left and you'll reach the end of the runway. You know the exact number actually. Eight. Eight perfect, flawless steps without any staggering. With these high heels, it's not an easy task to complete, but you're experienced, you have practice in elegant walk, as well as in professional expressions of your face with perfect make-up on it. After all, this isn't your fist fashion show. You're confident, peaceful, balanced. You have all you need. And you know that very well. If you didn't, you wouldn't be standing here right now.

Five more steps only now. They let your long hair down today, so you're looking forward to the seductive hair flip you're going to do once you reach the top of the runway. You'll add a thoroughly trained, yet very personal smile that will make the crowds go insane.

Three steps, two, one. You strike a pose worth the attention of all those crazily flashing cameras whose flashes dazzle you, and in return, you dazzle them with your disarming smile. You stay still in that pose for the accurate number of seconds, then you turn around gracefully and with confidence you go back, but in the middle of the runway you turn around again and you head back to the front where you remain for much longer now and you take in the amazing atmosphere. Lights, cameras, hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at you and nobody else. And to make this moment even more magnificent, there is your background music playing loudly. It's as exciting as your first fashion show, maybe even more, because back then you were nervous. Now all the insecurity is gone and you can enjoy this fantastic moment to the fullest, without worrying you will screw something up.

You realise you've been standing there for way too long. You mustn't keep this any longer, the other models have to get their space, too. You give the audience the last of your exquisite collection of smiles and you are about to head back but then something crosses your mind. You look at their faces and you find out you can't see any familiar one. You never see them anymore, but in this particular moment it somehow gets to you. You're on the top of your career, a famous topmodel, recognised by people in the streets, discussed by fashion magazines, requested by prestige fashion designers. You've achieved the goal you once set for yourself, although you were never 100% sure you were able to accomplish it. In those days, some used to laugh at you, some just thought you were crazy, but your close ones, your best friends, they stayed by your side. While you were hoping, they believed. You've made it and they're not even here to witness it. Where have they gone?

This is what's running through your head and you suddenly lose your balance and you almost fall down; luckily it doesn't happen. Nevertheless, people in the front rows stop breathing for a while and you know you'll read about this in tomorrow's newspapers. Wake up, girl, you reprimand yourself. Emotions don't belong to runway. That's what they taught you.

You don't look back, you only focus on the walk and on being gone as soon as possible. You totally lose it backstage. Thank goodness this was your last outfit of today. There is no threat of such a triasco anymore. You let the others brush your hair, remove your make-up and get you out of the lovely prom dress you were showing off today. You hardly perceive this routine, it doesn't touch you anyhow. You're thinking about what just happened, about the strong attack of sadness, loneliness and sorrow. You wish you could be home already, but there is a party afer the show that you can't skip, unfortunately. You let the make-up artist do your make-up again then, you put on a simple little black dress outlining the most beautiful features of your body, you put on your high heels and you tell yourself you're ready for this masquerade, despite knowing deep inside that in fact you're far from ready.

To your bad there is a group of importunate reporters from tabloid press. You comment their annoying questions like 'What happened there?' and 'Can you tell us if you simply didn't have your day today, or if you have some long-term problems?' very reservedly and you pray for this horrendous evening to be over soon. But no one leaves you alone, and so in the end you hide, aka you lock yourself at the toilet cubicle, where you think nostalgically about your old friends. You don't even remember the last time you met them. It's been a long while. You miss them.

As you sit there, on the toilet, wearing an expensive dress and golden jewels, you realise that the most valuable things you had and have lost are out there for you to find again. You leave the toilet cubicle then, you check your appearance in the mirror and outside you catch the first journalist that crosses your way. 'I've got a topic for an article for you,' you say to him in a nice, yet vigorous voice, ignoring his confusion. 'Jessica the supermodel looking for her old friends,' you continue. 'I guarantee it will be exactly that moving and emotional as your tabloid likes their articles to be. If you publish it, I will hopefully get the chance to find them again. And you will have the money, of course.' You giggle in a sexy way, because you know it's gonna get you his attention. 

'It'll be a pleasure to work with you,' he answers, his cheeks turning red as he's honoured that you have chosen him. But you have no desire to stick to him only. He's just the beginning. You need something bigger. You have to bring it up at the press conference.

You will find your friends. And you will stick together again - like you used to do once, when your dreams weren't reality and your friendship wasn't history. Only then you will really have all you need.

 

Forever (2013)

Some things, for example beauty, can't last forever. Or can they?

 

'Come on, where are you, birthday girl?' my friend Dan shouts. I can hear him walking past the door but he doesn't stop to knock on it, so I can breathe out. I'm sitting on the washing machine, hugging my own knees with my arms and looking over the whole bathroom at my reflection in the mirror. I look amazing. I'm beautiful, young and imperious, and all of that is written in my face. I like what I see. I want to stay like this forever.

I'm wearing a close-fitting black dress with golden glitter, revealing enough for me to admire the seductiveness of my body curves. It might sound creepy but I'm like a modern Dorian Gray. In love with my appearance. I'm not ashamed to admit it. And I know that other people feel the same way about me, so I can't be wrong.

I run my hands through my hair and I enjoy how soft it is. I touch my full lips with my fingertips; a bit of lipgloss clings to it. I continue, I slide down over my neck decorated with a shiny strass necklace - a gift from tonight - and I move my hand lower and lower; for a brief moment I clutch my tiny waist and then I end at my feet in high heels. My friends keep telling me I am obsessed with my body. I am. And I love this obsession of mine.

The alarm clock set on my mobile starts ringing with the melody of End of Time by Beyoncé. What an accurate pick. It announces the end of time. End of my time here.

I open my make-up bag lying on the washbasin. I use my favourite perfume for the last time, I apply the last layer of lipgloss on my lips. I smile at my reflection with satisfaction. Nobody would resist me.

There is half an hour left till the moment when it will have been exactly 18 years since I was born. That's still plenty of time, but I don't want to wait any longer. I won't look better than this anyway. I've got a feeling I've never looked so flawless. Beautiful, young, imperious. That's what I was born like, I've been like this my whole life... and I will also die like this. Now I'm happy, perfect. I won't let myself die ugly, old and sad.

I take a box with pills from the case above the washbasin. I pour them all into my hand. They're white and round, like snowflakes. I fill the cup I use while brushing my teeth I with cold water; I accidentally splash a few drops on my right arm. Damn, I curse inaudibly. I can't say it out loud, as everyone would find out I'm hiding here and they could stop me. I'm actually quite sure they would do that. And I can't let that happen.

I dry my arm carefully with a towel, which I then throw into the basket with dirty laundry. OK, I'm ready now. Or... wait, isn't my eye line blurry? No, that's just a shadow of my lashes. And here's a messy strand...

'Where are you? Come here and dance with me, baby!' I hear someone screaming outside. It's Dan again. My caring angel. I wish he could be here with me. I wish they all could. But I know they would never let me do this. So it's just me.

My eyes start to itch. No, I won't cry! I would mess up my make-up.

I can literally hear a clock ticking in my head. Time is running, I remind myself. You'll be adult in a while, then suddenly you'll be 20, then 30, 50, 80. You don't want this.

No, I don't, I reply immediately and I shake with disgust only when imagining it. The ugly and old version of me. That's what I see when I swallow the pills, one after another. I wash them down with a couple of gulps of cold water. The cup slips out of my hand and falls on the ground with a loud noise. I think I'm given away now. I've locked myself here but it won't take long and they'll find me.

I lean against the washbasin, I gaze in the mirror and I try to remember all the details about my appearance.

Beautiful, young and imperious.

I'll be like this forever.